


the center will not hold

by hawkass (eversingingleaves)



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Graphic Violence, Grief/Mourning, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Other, Self-Destruction, brawler!Clint, unhealthy ways of dealing with loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:32:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eversingingleaves/pseuds/hawkass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brawler!Clint ficlet, title taken from W.B. Yeats' poem  The Second Coming<br/>" Turning and turning in the widening gyre<br/>The falcon cannot hear the falconer;<br/>Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;"</p>
<p>Warnings for the following: Implied past rape/noncon, dealing with major character death, grief, graphic-ish violence, guilt, self-destruction</p>
            </blockquote>





	the center will not hold

The sick wet crunch of broken bones brought silence in its wake as Clint’s bare fist connected with his opponent; adrenaline sang a chorus of _alivealivealivealive_  in his bloodstream. A vicious grin escaped him. The bell sounded.

The fight was over.

Another night, another opponent- the same routine of sneak out, hail a cab ten blocks later. The same seedy bar every other week or so, until the itch began too strong again; until he could feel himself slipping into dullness.

He was never going to be dulled again.

Clint had tried drinking, tried sex to keep him warm and awake and alive but everything failed to erase the feeling on his tongue and the handprints on his shoulder and the voice in his head that called him  _little sparrow_. Not even sparring with Tasha helped; she pulled her punches in a sympathy that only he knew she had and they danced around for months before she finally took off to places unknown for a mission.

As he collected his bag and bandaged his broken finger with supplies stolen from SHIELD’s medbay, Clint could already feel the slow drain of death set in- replacing the breathless high with something far less warm. He collected his winnings and dropped them off three blocks later- an anonymous donation to a men’s shelter that needed it, that he had needed once. It was a place no one was turned away from, and the archer could get behind an idea like that.

The slow burn of overspent muscles crawled through his side as he hailed a cab back to ten blocks from the tower. He made no contact with the cab driver, merely hissing slightly as he inspected the break; deciding it was merely a bad jam, he bit his bottom lip and yanked it back into place with a yelp. The driver didn’t ever look up.

No one who stopped in this part of town ever did.


End file.
